To Live A Little - Overboard
by Aconitum-Napellus
Summary: An short interlude in the To Live A Little AU where Illya is blind, written to a prompt from Pfrye. Illya is washed overboard from Napoleon's boat Pursang during a storm, and has to get himself to safety. (This is set after Thorns and Roses.) (Slash)


The shifting deck was turning to something like a wall under Illya's feet. Deck to wall and back to deck again. Water lashed against him in drenching slaps and he didn't know if it were rain or seawater. Whichever it was, it was just as wet. Every time the boat heaved his feet slipped, and he hung on to the rope for dear life. His stomach was turning somersaults, and even empty his body forced him to retch and retch again. The storm had boiled up seemingly out of nowhere, and it had taken them both by surprise.

'I am – _never –_ going sailing with you again,' he yelled to Napoleon.

He felt extremely blind, blinded by the constant roaring noise of the storm, blinded by the fact that his body was concerned only with an all-invasive nausea, blinded by the constant shifts in what was horizontal and what was vertical. He wasn't even exactly sure where Napoleon was. He heard some kind of shout in reply, because Napoleon was taking extra care to let Illya know that he was there and safe every few minutes or so, but he couldn't hear what he was saying.

Hands pressed on his arm, shaking it a little. Napoleon was next to him, shouting into his ear, 'You'd better go below. Can you find the way?'

'I can't go below! I'm holding on to this wretched line for you!' Illya yelled back.

His fingers were stiff and frozen around that rope and he had no idea what it was for, but he wasn't about to let go. This little cruise on the Pursang had been meant, or so Napoleon had hoped, to help Illya conquer his seasickness and to bring him up to something approaching an able seaman level on board, so that they could enjoy sailing trips as an intimate two-man crew. Illya had read about blind sailing in the monthly magazine he subscribed to, read all sorts of enthusiastic sentiments on the wonderful, freeing nature of being able to sail a boat in a world which thought the blind were better off selling pencils or weaving baskets, or perhaps, to be charitable, working in an office. A small hint of interest in the idea had been enough for Napoleon to book a week off work for the both of them for a few days of sailing. Illya, along with his stomach, was deeply regretting it.

'You can let go of the line,' Napoleon shouted into his ear. 'I can take it now and get it tied off. I want you below. You're not familiar enough with the boat and it's not safe. Can you find the way?'

He found himself not exactly wanting to let go. He didn't want to find himself trapped in the cabin of a boat that seemed likely to go under at any moment, but he wasn't particularly happy on deck, either.

'I can find my way,' he said, and he reached out for the rail with his left hand and then let go of the rope and began to inch his way along as the deck lurched and righted and lurched and righted, and –

The water was all around him. It was in his mouth and in his ears and stinging in his eye, and he didn't know which way was up and where the air might be. There was nothing solid under his feet. He struck out wildly with his arms, for a moment overtaken with panic, because he was blind and overboard in a raging storm. He kicked and grabbed for anything that might resemble timbers or a rope, and something caught and tangled in his fingers, but it wasn't wood and it wasn't a rope. He didn't know what it was.

Panic wasn't going to help anyone. He was going to drown like this. He stopped lashing out and tried to conserve his air, and waited for the life jacket to take him to the surface. Thank god he had acceded to Napoleon's demand that he wear one.

There was air and whipping salt spray on his face, and he was gasping in breaths. Somewhere he could hear wind cutting through ropes and somewhere perhaps he heard a shout, but he couldn't work out the direction or the distance because the waves kept taking him up and down and up and down, and he was fighting to keep his mouth clear of the water. He tried yelling, in those moments when his mouth was up in the air, but the sound of wind in ropes and the creak of the boat merged into the tossing sounds of the waves, and he wasn't sure at all if that voice had been a voice or just another wave.

He was all alone in the water.

He kicked his shoes off. That was the first thing to do. They were weighing him down and making it harder to swim. He kicked his shoes off and wondered if he should keep his socks, but one of them had already been dragged off with the shoe. The water was far too cold. He needed to keep his head above the waves and keep from getting too cold, and he needed to find the shore, because the boat would be a needle in a haystack.

Napoleon had said they weren't far off shore. He had described the coastline early that morning to Illya, while the sun was rising behind them and before the storm had hit. _It's a mixture of low dirt cliffs and rocks and shingle bays_ , he had said. _Beautiful land, Illya. I wish you could see it with all that golden light striking the contours of the ground_. With the little press of warmth from the rising sun at his back and the gentle lap of water against the hull, Illya hadn't felt as if he were missing anything. Napoleon often felt he had to describe what he could see to Illya, when Illya wasn't really concerned with what was out there visually.

Then the sun had been dimmed by clouds and the wind had started gusting, and suddenly the storm had been all around him. Napoleon had been fighting to get the boat out to deeper water, afraid of being driven onto the rocks. All Illya could hear now were the waves, surging up and crashing back down. How could he hear the shore if the water right around him was making this much noise?

He brought various shreds of survival training back to mind. He had the life jacket. That was the best thing about this situation. But he was blind and the waves were surging and crashing around him, and the water was cold. He needed to conserve energy, and in a rough sea it was best to float face down. It felt so counter intuitive, but it was necessary.

He let himself relax into the water, resting his face beneath the surface and just letting the life jacket carry him. When he ran out of breath he raised his face and breathed, and then lowered it again, as the heaving water tossed his body up and down and waves slapped over him and the wind roared. He tried to turn his mind off to fear as well as subduing the panicked instincts of his body. He couldn't do anything until the water calmed. It was early morning and the air would likely warm up as the day moved on. The light wouldn't help him much but the sun would. If the water calmed, if he hadn't been pulled out to sea by the currents, if he was lucky, he might be able to hear waves on the shore, and he could try to swim to land. For that, he had to conserve his energy.

((O))

It felt as if he had been in the water for so long. He had no idea how long it had been, because everything was measured by lifting his mouth for air and dropping it again, and by the motion of the sea. His watch must have stopped working long ago. It was made to take small splashes but not total immersion in a violent ocean. But he became aware of a sensation of warmth on his back and the back of his head. He became aware that the water around him wasn't moving so violently, and the scream of the wind had calmed. There was a swell, but not a storm.

He raised his head and wiped water from his face with a wet hand, and then he rolled over onto his back and floated. The water swayed beneath him, gentle and viscous. The air was warmer on his face than it had been, and the breeze was softer. His legs were inclined to drift down with the wet trousers on him, but the life jacket held him steady at the surface. He palpated his left eyelid rather nervously, and sighed. The prosthetic had come out, maybe while he was thrashing under water. It was a nuisance, but it wasn't surprising. He didn't like the idea of getting sea water in his socket but he supposed it was a bit late for that.

He opened his eyes onto a blurred muddle of darkness and patches of light. When he moved his eye the colours shifted from grey to blue to grey again, and if he looked towards the direction of that warmth the brightness of the sun dazzled him. Perhaps it was some time around noon, going by the height of the sun. Knowing what he did of the coastline he would need to head west for land.

He floated a little longer, just listening. There was the occasional call of a gull, but there was also the regular surge of waves folding over onto something solid. He could hear the shoreline!

He almost laughed. He had learnt from his earliest days of training at the rehabilitation school to navigate using the shoreline of kerbs or buildings. Now he was looking for an actual shoreline, and he could hear it right there, a little distance away. He started to strike out towards that sound, trying to work out as he moved closer if there were any way of telling what the water was breaking on. He didn't want to swim straight towards rocks that would dash him apart, but it sounded like water breaking on shingle. He couldn't be sure. He had never thought to study the sounds of waves breaking on different mediums. He had never expected to be swept overboard from a small boat in a storm, and not be able to see.

He was getting closer to where the waves were breaking, and he found himself growing more nervous, because he couldn't tell how rough the sea was and how big the waves were. They sounded big, surging and sucking and grating the stones in their grasp. He had no real idea what he was facing. He was visualising a shallow shingle beach, but he could be totally wrong, and those waves were going to pull him in hard against whatever was there. He rose up as the swell rose around him, and then dipped down again, and the light and shade and colours shifted. He tried to make out what might be on the shore, but it was no good. He just couldn't see enough beyond little bits of brown that could be anything.

The water pushed him forward and then sucked him back. He fought against the sucking, and swam with the current when it pushed him towards the beach. He thought he was getting closer but it was so hard to tell. Then a wall of water crashed over him and he was tumbling and flailing, and he didn't know which way up he was. His mouth was full of salt water, he had no breath. His knees hit something hard, then his knuckles hit hardness too; shingle and sand. He scrabbled at that solidity as the water tried to drag him back again, but then it was pushing him on, and his whole body slammed into the hardness of land.

He clawed at the sand and shingle, barking his knuckles until they stung, dragging himself further up the beach, coughing and choking water from his lungs. The air was rich with the scent of salt and seaweed, and seaweed slipped under his fingers, slimy and clinging and momentarily awful until he realised what it was.

It was curiously hard to tell when the water was behind him, because his whole body was wet and his clothes were dripping and everything he touched was wet. But he could feel that sun-heat on his back, pressing into the backs of his legs and his neck and around the sides of the life jacket. His feet were still in water, it seemed, so he pulled himself further still, and then a little more, until he thought he must be out of range of even the occasional freak wave.

He lay there, just breathing, one hand on a patch of seaweed, the other curled around a smooth, palm-sized stone. Stones were hard against his ribs and nudging into his hip, but the solid land felt so wonderful he could have cried.

Water washed over his feet again, and he groaned. He would need to stand up. He couldn't keep dragging himself like a beached mermaid.

At first he could only make it to his knees. After all that time in the water the ground was rocking beneath him, his head spinning. He knelt there for a while, shouting at himself inside his head, trying to berate himself into getting over that stupid feeling. It was bad enough to be seasick on a boat without losing his legs on land. He had no idea where he was and he needed to get off this beach.

It suddenly struck him that he could even be on an island. That made him laugh aloud, and he sank back down to sit on his heels, his laughter ringing out loud and clear over the waves and the cries of the gulls. He wondered how long he would have to wander before discovering what kind of land he was on.

It was five minutes before he trusted himself to stand, and then he oriented himself with the waves behind him and something of a smear of green and brown in his vision ahead of him. He hoped the green meant that he wasn't going to be faced with a cliff. He walked, stumbling on stones that ranged from pebbles to rocks, none too steady and slipping against the obstructions. He had to be careful not to turn an ankle. He had to be careful of what might be ahead of him. When he slipped for the third time and came down heavily on something that was warm and soft and curiously wet he yelled out in alarm. The thing made a strange breathy noise and a kind of honk, and he heard it moving away over the stones.

A seal. It had to be a seal. He knelt there for a moment, trying to steady the pounding of his heart. He could hear other similar noises now from further away, a ripple of alarm rising from that first startled creature. God, the beach must be full of seals… They probably would either ignore him or run away, but it was unnerving to say the least. A full grown seal could do a lot of damage to a man if it wanted to.

He carried on up the beach. His legs were shaking and he felt so very tired. He didn't know how long he had spent lying in the water, and then swimming to shore, but even with the warm sun he was cold in his core, and all of his muscles ached, and his lungs ached, and now he was covered in bruises and perhaps in scrapes from falling on the rocks. It was so hard to tell if he were bleeding because he was so wet. He was so thirsty, too. That felt like such irony.

The stones gradually turned to sand, then to smaller stones again, and then back to sand. There was something of a rise there, as if the land were starting to turn itself into dunes. He could still hear the waves at his back, and the noises of the agitated seals back there. He hadn't come across any more of them, thank god, but it was odd to think of the beach full of them behind him.

There was sand now sticking to his hands and his feet and clagging onto his wet clothing. The bulk of the life jacket was irritating, but he didn't want to take it off and risk losing it. What if he were on an island? What if he needed to swim again? But he scrabbled up the side of what must be a low dune, and his hands encountered harsh sea grass that cut his skin like paper, and crackling bits of hardness that perhaps were bits of dried seaweed.

He pushed on forwards because he had no way of finding a good path, and he was so conscious of always trying to keep the sea to his back. The sand started to slope down again, and then up, but then it was going down again and it levelled out into something that felt like sandy soil and then grass. It was then that he felt as though he had really reached land.

He stood there with his feet on the soft grass and turned his head, listening. Could he hear traffic, perhaps? It was hard to tell. He listened hard for a few minutes, and then he drew in a deep breath and bellowed, 'Help!'

It seemed so pathetic, really, to be standing there calling for help, but he didn't see that he had any choice. There was no answer, though. All he could hear were birds, and the waves and the noises of the seals behind him. He carried on walking, down a shallow slope that grew progressively more pitted and awkward to walk on as it flattened out, periodically calling out and hoping for someone to answer.

He suddenly thought of Napoleon. God. Thoughts of Napoleon had run through his head while he was floating in the water, but since he had got close to shore he had been focussing so hard on his surroundings and what to do. But Napoleon – He hoped to god he hadn't been swept from the boat too. He had to believe that he hadn't, and that he had sailed through the storm. But he must be frantic with worry. Perhaps there would be people searching. If Napoleon had managed to control the boat and get a moment he would have radioed for help. He would have told the coastguard. Perhaps there had been helicopters out looking for him while he was in the sea, but he wouldn't have heard them, and the chances were high that they wouldn't have seen him. Not in those seas. Perhaps they had given up and gone home.

He stood still again, and yelled, 'Help!'

A cow mooed. Perhaps in some way that represented human civilisation. Where there were cows there were probably people somewhere. The cows explained why the ground was so pitted and churned up. It was almost as much of a hazard as the rocky beach, although this was softer to fall on, at least. But when he put his foot in a cow pat and the vibrant scent rose around him he had the urge to sink down and just give up.

He couldn't give up. He didn't want to be stuck in a field of cows any more than he wanted to be on a beach of seals. He carried on walking, trudging wearily over the horrible lumpy ground, taking each step with great care in case the land suddenly turned into a cliff or a hole or a waterway. He hated to be without his cane in a strange place. Eventually the arm he was holding before his body nudged into something solid. He had found a fence.

He ran his hands over the wire, feeling how the fence was constructed and where the posts were. He felt for barbed wire, and found it, covered in sharp little spikes. He climbed the fence where it was at its strongest by the pole, taking great care over the barbs, and stepped cautiously onto the ground on the other side. There was grass again, and then something hard and dry and warm under the sun. It felt like a dirt track.

'Help!' he shouted again, and then he stood and listened.

There must be someone, somewhere? But there was no answer, and he stood there for a moment at the side of what he hoped was a road, trying to decide on left or right. For no good reason he chose left, and he started to walk that way, finding out that the hard dusty flatness carried on and on, and must be a road, because what else stretched like this without end?

It was a long time before he heard the engine, but then there it was; at first a distant purr, and then something louder, rattling, the sound of a diesel engine that had probably been on the go for years. Illya stopped, frozen for a moment in wonder at that beautiful sound. But what if it was on another road? What if it didn't come past him?

He fumbled at the straps of his life jacket, struggling to get it off. He could use it as a flag. But he couldn't work out the straps, couldn't get it off, so he stopped and just raised his arms and waved and waved and shouted until his throat was hoarse.

The engine grew louder, until it was undeniable it was coming his way. The track was crunching under the tread of rubber tyres. He wanted to fall to his knees and sob, but he managed to hang on to enough of his self control to just stand there, waiting, until finally the thing rolled up beside him in a stench of diesel and dry dust, and a woman said, 'Are you the man half the local boatmen are out looking for?'

Illya reached out a hand to feel warm metal, dusty, with paint flaking on top of bubbling rust.

' _Yes_ ,' he said.

He could have hugged and kissed this woman. He didn't know the first thing about her and he was not a demonstrative person, but he could have kissed her.

'Well, I can't tell if you're the luckiest person alive or a drowned rat,' she said in a matter of fact tone. 'Stay there, honey. I'll give you a hand.'

She had been on the other side of the vehicle to him, but he didn't even bother to try to find the handle for the passenger side. He felt so tired all of a sudden. He stood there and tried to keep himself from slumping against the car or truck or whatever it was, while she got out and came to him.

'You want that life vest off?' she asked. 'It can't be doing you much good a mile from the sea, and it'll be awkward to sit in, in the truck.'

'Yes,' he said, and his voice was thick with tiredness. 'Yes. I couldn't get it off. I couldn't work out the straps.'

'You want to save it, or can I use a knife?' she asked.

'A knife,' Illya said. A very large part of him intended to never go near the sea again.

It was such a relief to be free of that stiff jacket, and he let the woman help him up into a soft, badly-sprung and split seat, and he sat there with a hand on the dashboard while the truck bumped and trundled over the road.

'Your friend's in town,' the woman told him. 'He's half mad with worry, I think. I'll have you back to him in half an hour, though, Mr – What was your name? They said it on the news, I know.'

'Mr Kuryakin,' Illya said. 'Illya. My name's Illya.'

'Janis Hagen,' she replied. 'Call me Janis.'

((O))

Afterwards he was never sure if he almost fell asleep in the warm front seat of that truck, or if he actually did fall asleep. He was aware of feeling very tired, and so cold at the core of him, despite the warm sun shining through the windscreen onto his wet clothes. He was aware of the woman, Janis, talking to him, and of trying to give replies, but of just being so very tired. Then he was blinking and she was touching his arm and saying, 'That's it, Illya. Mr Kuryakin? We're in town, right in front of the police station.'

He blinked and went to rub his eyes, instinctively going to rub from the outer edge in so he didn't dislodge the prosthetic, when he remembered that his prosthetic was long gone.

'I must look an awful state,' he murmured.

He hadn't shaved that morning because of the motion of the boat, his feet were bare, and he could tell by his smell if nothing else that he was filthy with sand and muck and mess.

'When a man's been shipwrecked it doesn't matter so much what he looks like, but that he's alive,' Janis told him. 'Sit there, honey. Let me help you.'

He was tired enough not to argue. She got out and came around to his side, opening the door and helping him down to the ground. The sun was warm on him and he could hear people, passers-by, he guessed, speaking in tones of muted interest and excitement. This was a small town, he supposed, and he had become an interesting item of news.

'Let me take you inside,' Janis said, putting an arm around his back, and Illya felt so tired that he was glad of the support instead of asking for her to let him take her arm. 'Here's the kerb,' she said. The ground turned from road surface to concrete pavement, and then she said, 'There are a few steps, okay?' and he went with her up them and through a door.

A whirlwind seemed to unleash itself. Napoleon called out, ' _Illya!_ ' and he was grabbed and jerked and then held in such a hard hug that he couldn't breathe.

'God,' Napoleon said. 'God...'

He stopped trying to pay attention to what was going on. Napoleon's arms were strong and hard around him for a minute, and he just leant against that beautiful familiar scent and strength of him. But they were in a police station and there were people all around them, and this reunion couldn't be anything more than a reunion between two platonic friends.

'Illya, do you need anything?' Napoleon asked.

'Water,' he said.

'I would have thought you'd had enough of that,' Napoleon replied, giving his cheek the briefest touch.

Someone pressed a cup of water into his hands and he drank and drank, then he sank down onto a chair and drank some more. He found himself sitting there in a daze while Napoleon spoke and Janis spoke, but he didn't really listen. There were other male voices, police officers, he thought, and someone saying something about getting him to a hospital or a doctor, and he roused himself enough to say, 'I'm not hurt. I'm all right. I don't need a doctor.'

'Illya, it's a good idea to get checked out,' Napoleon said, and Illya replied with sudden snappishness, 'I don't need a doctor, I need a shower and a bed.'

'All right, all right,' Napoleon said, and Illya got the distinct feeling that he was being humoured.

He sat on the chair for a little longer, answering questions that were put to him directly, but ignoring everything else. He felt about ready to fall over, even sitting down. Then Napoleon was saying to him, 'All right, my fragrant mariner. You're all signed out and ready to go. Come on. I rented a motel room as a base. It's just down the road. Okay?'

'With a bed?' Illya asked.

'With a bed,' Napoleon assured him, 'and a shower,' he added in a rather more disgusted tone. 'I'm not sure that eau de poisson suits you.'

((O))

When he walked in through the door of the motel he didn't know what to do for a moment. He equally wanted to fall into bed and walk into the shower, and he didn't know where either was. He just knew the carpet under his bare and filthy feet, and the flimsy feeling of the room door. There was a scent of Napoleon in the room, or perhaps it was just the scent of Napoleon standing next to him holding his arm, but overpowering that was the scent of cow muck and seaweed and salt.

'Shower,' Napoleon said firmly. 'You're lucky this is a motel. I wouldn't have gotten you past the desk clerk in a hotel. Come on. Shower first, and let me look at you.'

'All right,' Illya said.

He was starting to shiver, and it was hard to make decisions. It must be the cold, he supposed, pushing through him from the inside to out. That cold had been seeping into him the whole time he had been in the water. The warm sunshine had done no more than gilded over the surface of him.

'Come on,' Napoleon said, nudging him into a room with a tiled floor, and he started tugging and peeling at Illya's clothes, making little wincing noises of sympathy when he came across a bruise or a graze.

'I lost my eye,' Illya murmured. He was wavering on his feet as Napoleon turned the tap and brought the shower to life.

'That's easily replaced,' Napoleon said, then amended it to say, 'I mean, it's something we can deal with when we're home. Don't worry about that now. We'll make sure the socket's well washed out along with the rest of you.'

'I could do with sunglasses,' Illya said.

'Don't worry about that now,' Napoleon said again. 'I can get you a pair of sunglasses in the store down the street if you want me to. Don't worry about anything. Come on. Step into the shower now. Don't even worry about washing. I'll do that for you.'

Illya stepped into the shower tray and leant against the wall. The warm water streamed over his body and he started to feel as though he might eventually become warm.

'I should have taken you to the doctor,' Napoleon worried, and Illya said, 'No, I don't need the doctor. I just got cold in the sea. Just need to warm up.'

'I'll warm you up,' Napoleon promised.

He stepped into the shower with Illya and raked his fingers through his wet hair and brushed a hand over his cheek, and then kissed him as the water flowed.

'God,' Napoleon said. 'I looked around and you were gone, Illya. Just in a flash, just like that. One moment you were there and then there was a wave, and you were gone. I saw a flash of your life vest and then – I threw out a life ring but it wasn't anywhere near you, and I'd lost sight of you by then, and the boat was being driven off by the wind, and then – you weren't anywhere. You just weren't anywhere. Don't ever do that to me again. Please, Illya. Never do that to me again.'

Illya nudged his head forward and sought Napoleon's lips, and he found them and kissed him, raising his tired arms, slipping his fingers through Napoleon's hair and over the tendons in his neck, over his shoulders and collarbones and the firm smoothness of his chest. It was so good to feel him. It was so precious to feel him after that time adrift in the raging water, thinking he might never touch anyone again.

He pressed the whole length of his body against Napoleon's and Napoleon's arms held him up, strong around his sides and back, feeling him as hard as he was feeling Napoleon. He slipped his hands down to feel the strength in his buttocks and the angles of his hipbones and the flat space of his belly, his and Napoleon's bellies pressed together with just his hand slipping between them, stroking down, finding rough hair and Napoleon's cock half-hard, half-soft against his own. Then he raised his arms again to loop them around Napoleon's shoulders, and just stood there leaning on him, holding him.

'Next time you tell me to come sailing I will handcuff you to the bed,' he said in a low growl, his mouth against Napoleon's ear, his lips closing in little soft bites over that warm flesh.

'Mmm, that sounds like a promise,' Napoleon replied.

'It's a threat,' Illya said firmly.

'You taste of salt,' Napoleon said, because his own mouth was turning to catch Illya's stubbled jaw and his lips again, and Illya said around Napoleon's kisses, 'Go lower and I'll taste of worse. Salt should be in a salt cellar, and cow pats should stay in fields.'

'I will clean you,' Napoleon promised again.

He stopped kissing Illya then and did as he had promised, first massaging shampoo into his hair with strong fingers and rinsing it all out again.

'What about that eye?' he asked, and Illya said, 'Shower. Turn the power down a bit and let me turn it up to the shower.'

He waited for the sound and strength of the water to ease, and then he turned his face up into the water and let it wash in and out of the socket over and over again. He hated being without his eye. He only usually took it out once a month, just long enough to wash it and put it back again.

'Okay?' Napoleon asked, and he nodded. 'Well, let me do the rest of you,' Napoleon said.

He covered his lover's body with lathered soap and soft, loving sweeps of a washcloth, taking care over bruises and scrapes, kissing each one as he passed it.

'I thought you'd drowned, Illya,' he said, and as Illya leant against the tiles Napoleon was kneeling on the floor in front of him, his forehead resting lightly against Illya's pelvis, his lips moving in tiny kisses over Illya's cock as his hands soaped up and down his legs.

'I know,' Illya said, because he thought he had drowned too, more than once when he was out there in the churning sea.

Suddenly the fear of it swept over him, a kind of fear he hadn't allowed himself to feel until he was safe. Suddenly his knees felt weak and he could hardly stand, and his heart was thumping against his ribs. Water, water, and water, and not knowing where the boat was, where the shore was, where anything was. That terrible feeling of water far below where his feet could reach and water far beyond the reach of his hands, as if the entire world were made of water and nothing else.

'Hey,' Napoleon said.

He was standing again, a hand on Illya's cheek.

'You're all right,' he said. 'Come on. Out of the shower. That's it.'

Illya stumbled over the edge of the shower tray and stood numbly while Napoleon rubbed him all over with a thick, soft towel, hissing in little moments of pain when he caught a bruise or cut.

'Let me look at your hands,' Napoleon said, taking him out of the bathroom. 'Bed's behind you. Sit down. No, lie down, Illya, then let me look at your hands.'

'They're all right,' he said.

'You've got some cuts,' Napoleon told him, but Illya said again, 'I just knocked them on the shingle. They're all right. Really. They're all right for now. I'm tired, Napoleon. I'm tired, and I'm cold, and – '

He couldn't bring himself to verbalise the fear. It was such a huge thing, such an enveloping thing that had taken all this time to hit him. He kept finding himself floating in that encompassing water again, nothing solid in reach, knowing he was utterly alone. It was a terrible dropping feeling in his stomach.

'Lie down,' Napoleon said, and he put his hands on Illya's shoulders and gently folded him downwards so he was lying with his damp hair on the pillow. Napoleon pulled covers over him and said, 'Stay there, I'm making you coffee.'

'All right,' Illya said. He was shivering again now he was out of the shower. But then Napoleon was pressing a hot mug into his hands and he let the warmth seep into his bones, and then he drank some of the liquid and felt the heat start to warm him from the inside too.

There was a stentorian knock on the door and Napoleon hurried for a moment with pulling on clothes before going to answer. All Illya could hear was murmurs from outside and Napoleon saying, 'No, gentlemen. No. Tomorrow, all right?'

The bed seemed to be swaying beneath him. He thought about depthless water and crashing waves and his mouth full of salt water and nothing to be seen and no way to tell which way to swim. Then Napoleon's hands were over his, steadying them on the mug, and from somewhere outside the haze he was saying, 'Every two bit radio station and newspaper for fifty miles probably wants to talk to you. I told them tomorrow. Maybe we can be gone before they come back. If they get wind that we're from U.N.C.L.E. we'll never get rid of them.'

'Oh. Yes,' Illya said.

'Hey. Are you all right?' Napoleon asked.

'There were seals,' Illya said suddenly, his laugh a little hysterical. 'There were seals on the beach. I fell right over one. I don't know who was more surprised.'

Napoleon sat down on the side of the bed and took his hand.

'You're all right now, Illya,' he said. 'You got yourself to safety.'

'I know I'm all right... I must have looked a sight,' Illya murmured. 'Wandering a mile from the sea in a life jacket, soaking wet, my eye gone, no shoes...'

'You got yourself to safety,' Napoleon said again. 'Illya, I can't imagine how frightening it must have been.'

He laughed softly. 'I wasn't scared at the time. Not really. I'm used to dealing with the world without seeing, Napoleon. It's my status quo. I'm not so stupid that I wasn't worried, but I wasn't really scared. For some reason it seems to be hitting me now, after the fact.'

'Well, that's how these things work sometimes,' Napoleon said, stroking his hand. 'You remember what it's like when you're pinned down and you've got ten guys to bring down, and they've got machine guns and you've got your handgun. You're never scared at the time. Then you wake up in the middle of the night, thinking about it.'

'Yes,' Illya said. The memory of being adrift in the sea was all around him. He was glad to be in a warm, dry bed.

'Sleep,' Napoleon said. 'You must be exhausted. We were up early and you were awake being seasick half the night. Why don't you sleep? And when you've slept I'll get you something to eat.'

'Thank you,' Illya said.

He lay there, exhausted, but sleep felt far away. The cold was creeping back again, like an illness he couldn't overcome. He was shivering, and his head ached, and he was so tired. The bed was rocking beneath him as if he were still at sea, and when he let his thoughts wander suddenly it was all there again, all around him, the water and the screaming wind and the waves crashing over him. He jumped, making an inarticulate noise, and Napoleon touched his arm.

'Okay?' Napoleon asked.

'I'm okay,' he nodded.

'Listen, if you fall asleep I'll run out to get a few things from the drugstore. If you wake up and I'm not there, that's where I'll be.'

'Go now,' Illya said. 'You don't need to wait for me to go to sleep.'

Napoleon laid a hand on his forehead. 'You're sure?'

'I'm sure,' Illya said, and he tried to sound more composed, less of a mess. 'I am sure,' he repeated. 'I'll be fine. I'm not going anywhere.'

'Well, I might go to the boat as well. The harbour's right opposite the drug store. I can get some of your things. Okay?'

'Okay,' Illya said. It was obvious how worried Napoleon was, but for some reason he just wanted a little time and space alone.

'The telephone's on the other side of the room, on a table to the left of the door where we came in. Use it if you need to.'

'I'm all _right_ , Napoleon,' Illya insisted. 'I'm cold, but not dangerously cold, and I'm tired, but I'm all right.'

'All right,' Napoleon said, touching his cheek tenderly. 'I'll be back very soon.'

Illya lay there as Napoleon picked up jangling keys and the door opened and closed again, and then he lay in the stillness, just trying to pull together some sense of safety and peace. There must be a light bulb on the ceiling above the bed. He could see the yellow brightness of it somewhere above him. And there was this bed, and the bathroom off to the left. He didn't really need to know anything more than that.

Something itched in him to get up and find out more about the room, but he felt so tired, and there was a little burning and congestion in his lungs from the water, and his whole body felt so heavy. It was hard to believe that this was the same day; the same early summer day in which he had woken on that narrow bunk in the Pursang and come out onto deck and found Napoleon there extolling the glories of the sunrise; the same day in which clouds had come to blot out that sunrise and whip the sea into a frenzy; the same day in which he had spent hours floating in the water, and had finally come ashore. He had no idea what time it was. Maybe it didn't matter. The bed rocked gently beneath him as if he were still at sea, but he was on dry land. There was no sickness. He had saved himself from drowning, and got himself to help.

He found himself lying there, wondering how much it would really hurt to get back on that boat and go out to sea with Napoleon. Some sensible precautions could be taken against being swept overboard. Maybe a rope and a carabiner so he could clip himself on if he felt the need. Anyway, how often did a freak storm like that come up? Napoleon had owned the Pursang for years. Could he really allow seasickness and the fear of the unlikely to stop him from sharing that with his partner?

Perhaps he could persuade Napoleon to try horse-riding with him. Now _that_ would be interesting.

That ethereal rocking beneath him was so soothing. He closed his eyes and remembered the scent of the salt water and the gentle movement of the boards beneath his feet. He hadn't felt seasick the _whole_ time. He had lain with Napoleon on the desk and basked in the sun. At times it had been blissful, until the storm came up.

'Hey, Illya. Illya.'

He hadn't realised that he'd fallen asleep, but he must have done. He had been so tired. There was a hand shaking his arm very gently, and he blinked and coughed and then woke all at once, shaking off a dream that had involved boats and high seas and water all around him.

'I just wanted to be sure you were all right,' Napoleon said, and Illya grunted.

'I'm all right,' he said. 'A little congestion in my chest, I think.'

'I got you a little gift in the drugstore,' Napoleon said, and he slipped a warm, rubber scented hot water bottle beneath the covers. Illya smiled and wrapped his arms around it, hugging it to his chest.

'The perfect gift for the shipwrecked sailor,' he said. 'Thank you, Napoleon.'

He pushed himself up in the bed, reaching behind him to pull his pillow into a better position, stretching his toes out between the clean sheet and the blankets covering him. He felt warmer, and so much more rested. When he had gone to sleep he had still felt intimately connected to that long and difficult time in the sea. Now it felt more distant from him.

'Well, I brought you some fresh clothes and your cane, Illya,' Napoleon said. 'And I also brought you a doctor.'

'Oh, Napoleon,' Illya grumbled. 'I am all right.'

'No, it's a good idea,' Napoleon said firmly. 'He's waiting outside. I just want him to check you over. Just in case.'

Illya made a low, grumbling noise, but then he said, 'All right, Napoleon. Let him in, if you must.'

'I must,' Napoleon said, and a few minutes later Illya was sitting up in bed while the doctor listened carefully to his chest and checked over the cuts on his hands and feet.

'Well, he has a little congestion in the lungs, Mr Solo,' the doctor said, and Illya cleared his throat and said, 'Excuse me, Doctor, but it's me that you're examining.'

The doctor laughed lightly, and patted him on the shoulder, saying, 'I'm sorry, Mr Kuryakin. Yes, you have some congestion in your lungs, but it's not serious. Now, the cuts on his hands will need re-dressing every few days, Mr Solo, and I'll prescribe something for that cough. If you give him a spoonful every four hours – '

'Thank you, Doctor,' Illya said, because while there seemed little point in raising a fuss about not being addressed directly again, he couldn't just accept it. He could hear the man writing something out on his pad. 'You can give the prescription to me.'

The doctor laughed again good-naturedly and said, 'I'll give it to Mr Solo and he can make sure it's filled and you get the right dosage.'

Illya was biting in fury as the doctor left.

'Gee, I'm sorry, Illya,' Napoleon said as soon as the door was closed. 'He's the only doctor in this town.'

Illya huffed out breath. 'Well, it's something else to focus on other than nearly drowning,' he said. 'Parochial doctors and their outdated attitudes.'

'I wanted to make sure your lungs were okay,' Napoleon said rather apologetically. 'You know people can suffer secondary drowning.'

'Rarely,' Illya said softly. 'But it's all right, Napoleon. I suppose you were right to call him in. I'll have my regular physician look me over when we get home, just to put your mind at rest. And maybe this one's potions will help in the interim.'

'Move over,' Napoleon said, and when Illya moved he slipped in under the blankets with him, clothed as he was, and just laid himself along the length of Illya's body.

'I spent hours thinking you'd drowned,' he said, his head lying softly on Illya's shoulder, arm draped across his abdomen.

'I know,' Illya said quietly, lifting a hand to stroke gently through Napoleon's hair. 'But I didn't. I'm here. I'm safe.'

'I shouldn't have dragged you out on this sailing trip.'

Illya shook him a little. 'Of course you should, Napoleon. You didn't drag me, anyway. I was a perfectly willing participant. And it wasn't a bad idea. It was a freak accident and it could have happened to anyone. It could have happened to you as easily as me. Maybe sailing isn't my forte, but I'm glad to have tried it and I'd like to try it again. Just not today.'

'Not tomorrow either,' Napoleon said. 'You might feel up to trying it again, but I don't. We'll hire a car and drive back to New York and then I'll come back up alone for the boat.'

Illya sighed. 'I could take the train, or a bus,' he said.

'Yes, you could,' Napoleon acknowledged, 'but I'd rather drive down with you. When we're back home maybe we could look into it all a bit more. Speak to these people you read about in your magazine. Make sure we're doing it the best way we can.'

'All right,' Illya acceded. He would do that for Napoleon's peace of mind. 'But we won't think about it now.'

'I can't help but think about what happened,' Napoleon murmured against Illya's chest. 'I turned around and you weren't there. I shouted for you but I couldn't hear any reply, and the boat was like a wild thing underneath me. I just saw you, just that quickest flash of the life vest, and then that was it. The rain and the waves, and – '

'I know,' Illya said, stroking his arm, because he could feel Napoleon's distress. 'I know. Perhaps it was harder for you because you weren't having to focus everything on staying alive. That's all I was doing. I was focussing on staying alive. It didn't give me much time to think. Even while I was floating and waiting for the storm to pass I didn't really think. And then the waves calmed down and the sun came out.'

'Yes,' Napoleon said quietly. 'And I was tacking back to shore and trying to help the search efforts, and – I don't think I knew which way I was facing. When you walked in to that police station – '

'I have done this a hundred times before,' Illya assured his partner. 'It's a little different, I know, when we're on a mission, but I've done it a hundred times. How many times have you thought me dead?'

'It's never been easier,' Napoleon said sincerely. 'Not one time has it ever gotten easier.'

'No,' Illya said, 'but it has always been a part of our lives. It has always been a part of my life. Do you remember when we jumped from that raft in the Pacific, and we were hauled aboard Captain Shark's ship?'

'Boy do I remember that,' Napoleon murmured.

'Well, this was just another moment in our lives,' Illya assured him, and he felt as though his words were helping with his own flashes of retrospective fear, too. It helped to remember that his life had always been this way. 'I was in danger, and now I am not. We lead charmed lives, Napoleon. We're here and together again, both safe. In a few days time this will be remembered as an adventure. Perhaps in a few months we will find leave time again to get back on board your boat, and we can try again.'

'In a few months, maybe,' Napoleon said. His arm was very warm and firm across Illya's middle, holding him as if he were afraid he might slip away. 'In the nearer future I think we should stick to cars.'

'All right,' Illya said, kissing the top of his head. 'We will stick to cars. I like driving with you anyway. We can make a road trip of our return to New York. You can hire someone to sail the boat back, I'm sure. Let's see what we can of New England while we have the chance. You can ply me with maple syrup and salt water taffy and all the other oddities of your country. I'd like to walk in a maple forest, maybe. Crunch the dried leaves and feel the sunshine and hear the birdsong.'

'All right,' Napoleon conceded. 'We will make a road trip. Dried leaves and sunshine and birdsong. Nasty little motels and restaurants at night and picnics by the roadside. And we will make every mile on dry land.'


End file.
